"I doubt if it does," replied Carice, quietly, yet not without a certain something in her tone that sounded almost like sarcasm. He looked at her in considerable surprise, but her eyes were turned away, and she said no more.
Feeling as if he were walking in a mist, which everywhere eluded his grasp, while it blinded his eyes, and chilled his heart, he rose to go.
"Let me see," said his aunt, kindly, as she gave him her hand, "to-morrow will be Sunday, will it not? Pray let us find you in our pew at church in the morning; and come home with us to an early dinner, before the evening service."
Bergan hesitated. He had no reasonable excuse; yet his uncle had not seconded the invitation. As if suddenly cognizant of the omission, Mr. Bergan now spoke.
"Come, by all means," said he, with more kindness than he had yet shown,—for he could not bring himself to give a half-hearted invitation to his sister's son,—"I have still a great deal to ask about your mother."
"And I," said his aunt, laughing, "have still a great deal to ask about yourself. Good night."
They stood on the piazza watching him, until he was out of sight. Then Carice turned to her father.
"Did he say anything about—yesterday?" she asked, gravely.
"Not a word. I should have liked him better if he had offered some explanation."
"Perhaps he did not recognize us," suggested Carice.